


imperfect, tense

by renaissance



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: F/F, Getting Together, Seasonal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-07 13:43:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5458544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renaissance/pseuds/renaissance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>The tree always blooms from the top down, and when Hitoka was little her mum would pick her up and let her reach to pick a flower. When Hitoka got too old for that, she’d wait instead until the lower branches were in bloom, and reach as high as she could. She’d always pick the closest flower, the one that first caught her eye. There was never any point in reaching further, or trying to overstretch her limits.</p>
  <p>A few things have changed since last Spring.</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	imperfect, tense

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jsunny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jsunny/gifts).



> Hey jsunny! I was so excited to see your prompts in my inbox when assignments went out, because they were all such great ideas... in the end, though, I went with the one that was a match to what I offered. I had so much fun writing this, and pushing myself outside my fic comfort zone, so I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> My utmost thanks go to my beta reader AJ. Look how far we've come... !

It’s Spring when Hitoka falls in love—unintentionally, unromantically, unrealistically.

Kiyoko is so beautiful, so out of her reach. She’s like a blossom at the top of the tree in the courtyard of Hitoka’s block of flats. The tree always blooms from the top down, and when Hitoka was little her mum would pick her up and let her reach to pick a flower. When Hitoka got too old for that, she’d wait instead until the lower branches were in bloom, and reach as high as she could. She’d always pick the closest flower, the one that first caught her eye. There was never any point in reaching further, or trying to overstretch her limits.

A few things have changed since last Spring. Now Hitoka knows that Villager B can fight too, that even someone short can leave an impression with how high he jumps. That you should never say anything is impossible, just in case you achieve it despite the odds.

All that confidence feels like it falls from the seventeenth storey when it comes to Kiyoko. At the turn of the season, a few buds have opened at the top of the tree and the courtyard’s starting to take on their scent. At the turn of the season, Hitoka falls in love, and there’s no way she’ll ever be tall enough to jump to reach the highest flowers.

She’s in the courtyard when her phone buzzes with a text from Kiyoko. _Hitoka-chan, I’m almost there. Could you meet me out the front?_

 _I could, I could_ , Hitoka thinks, _I’d love to!_ But, she knows that you’re not supposed to be too eager, that it’s _cooler_ to wait a little bit. “Fashionably late” is what it’s called. And showing that you’re aloof, immune to the pull of love, and happiness, and excitement, that’s cool too. Hitoka stands up a bit straighter and puffs her cheeks out, ready for anything.

The walk from the courtyard to the entrance hall, and then from the entrance hall to the front doors, has never felt longer. Hitoka thinks about the blossoms that’ll be scattered across the courtyard—not long, now—and feels the carpet in the entrance hall underfoot as she walks to the doors, rolling her feet outwards so her sandals don’t squeak. She sees Kiyoko’s silhouette as she approaches the doors from the other side, and almost stills as she imagines the scene: the way the doors will open when she unlocks them, and Kiyoko standing there in silence, maybe pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

Instead, her silhouette stops a few a feet short of the doors. Hitoka’s phone buzzes against the palm of her hand. _I’m outside_.

The doors only work one way. From the inside, you can see shapes moving on the street, cars going by, bicycles, pedestrians, and the shadows of the trees on the pavement, but from the outside all you see is the cool white of the frosted glass. Hitoka can see out, Kiyoko can’t see in—it’s almost some sort of metaphor.

“I’m coming!” Hitoka says, even though she knows Kiyoko probably can’t hear her.

She trips over her feet as she dashes to the green button that opens the doors, and uses it to steady herself as she presses the heel of her palm into it. The doors slide open slowly. Hitoka takes that time to stand up a little straighter, to act like she’s not been waiting in the courtyard for the last fifteen minutes, just in case Kiyoko might’ve come early.

Kiyoko’s voice comes through the doors before she does. “Ah, Hitoka-chan, that was fast. Thank you.”

“Thank you!” Hitoka says, all too quickly. She pauses, clears her throat. “Um, I mean, you’re welcome!”

The way Kiyoko smiles could light up the entire block of flats. “I hope you weren’t waiting long. I’m not late, am I?”

Actually Kiyoko is a few minutes early, which is ideal. Hitoka tries to hold back her excitement. This is the first time Kiyoko has come over, after all.

There’s still a bad feeling that Hitoka is trying to push to the back of her mind. She knows Kiyoko is only here because of her own subterfuge. They had always spoken about volleyball, or their own hobbies, and Hitoka hadn’t expected Kiyoko to broach the subject of schoolwork. It all happened so fast—Kiyoko mentioned her best subject was English and, caught up in the moment, Hitoka had blurted, “Oh, it’s my worst!”

It’s true English isn’t her _best_ subject, but Hitoka is in a college prep class for a reason. There was a part of her, though, that wanted another reason to be around Kiyoko, which is why—which _must_ have been why—she said something so _stupid_!

And then, Kiyoko had replied, “If you want, I can help you study for it… ?” She had sounded so genuine, so hesitant, that Hitoka felt absolutely _terrible_ taking advantage of her in such a way. But because she’d already spoken, and because admitting to lying would’ve been worse, she took Kiyoko up on the offer—and that’s why Kiyoko had come all the way to her home to tutor her personally.

For Hitoka, it’s exciting and frightening in equal measures. She leads the way to the lifts like the example paragraph in Chapter 10 of her English textbook, the one she’s left out on her desk in preparation for their study session, which tells the story of Orpheus from the Underworld—if she looks behind, Kiyoko mightn’t be there any longer.

“What floor are you on?” Kiyoko asks. Hitoka can see her reflection in the steel lift doors.

“Seventeenth,” Hitoka says, embarrassed by how high-pitched her voice sounds when she’s nervous.

Kiyoko’s reflection smiles. “The view must be nice.”

“It is!” Hitoka says. “Except, you can’t see it from my room. It looks out over the courtyard.”

The lift doors slide open with a _ding_. “Will we be studying from your room, then?”

Hitoka very deliberately doesn’t look at what Kiyoko’s face is doing. She knows the expression—a little sly, a little reserved, makes Hitoka’s heart leap like nothing else. “We will,” she says.

The seventeen floors feel like seventeen hours as the lift starts rising. There’s a lot of room in the lift, and Kiyoko stands far too close. She’s quiet, hands folded together in front of her and head bowed just a bit, but she’s still smiling. Somehow, it makes Hitoka feel more confident. When the doors finally open again, she’s ready for anything.

They head in through the front door, and Hitoka hears typing from the direction of her mother’s office. “I’m back!” she calls. “A-and, Shimizu-senpai is here.”

Hitoka often wishes she could be tall like her mother, even though she knows it’ll never happen. She’ll always be looking up at people—that’s why she likes the view from her bedroom. There’s nothing _up_ to look at, just more flats. Down, there’s the courtyard, edged with finely-cut hedges and wooden benches, rows and whirls of pebbles, leading to the tree in the centre. It’s far down, but Hitoka’s always had good eyesight.

Her mother emerges from her office, twirling a tablet pen between her fingers. “Kiyoko-chan,” she greets, “it’s good to meet you at last.”

There’s a terrifying split-second when Hitoka thinks for _sure_ she’s going to add something like, “I’ve heard so much about you!”—she doesn’t, though, and Hitoka lets out a breath.

“It’s good to meet you too, Yachi-san,” Kiyoko says, bowing.

“We’re going to study now!” Hitoka says quickly. “Bye!”

She stops short of taking Kiyoko’s hand to drag her away, but she doesn’t need to, because Kiyoko follows quietly. Hitoka feels rude, but she tells herself that this is what she has to do if she wants to avoid any further awkward conversation, let alone her mother getting into the specifics of what Kiyoko’s doing there—if she knew Hitoka was being tutored in English, she’d be _furious_ , so as far as she knows, they’re just studying side-by-side.

Hitoka clears a place at her desk, shuffles her chair across just in case the spare chair is too close, makes room for Kiyoko. She picks up the remote to turn on the air conditioning as Kiyoko sits down.

“Sorry it’s so messy,” she says, excusing herself on instinct.

“It isn’t,” Kiyoko says, pulling her chair close in to the desk. “Your room is very organised, actually—just as I’d expect.”

Kiyoko is still smiling a bit, and Hitoka looks away, just in case she’s blushing. “I’m sure yours is too,” she says.

“Ah, definitely not,” Kiyoko says. She’s always very delicate with her actions— _poised_ is the word Hitoka would use, because Kiyoko is one of those people who looks immaculate whatever she’s doing, photogenic even in a candid—so it’s a surprise to see her shake her head so vigorously in response.

“No?!” Hitoka echoes, inept as ever at disguising her emotions.

“My room’s a mess,” Kiyoko says. “I always forget to put my clothes away, so my desk is used more for storage than study. And I have textbooks all over the floor. It’s nice to walk into a room where there’s a clear path from the door to the bed.”

“My bed’s just there,” Hitoka blurts. “I mean! You can see that, of course.”

Hitoka watches as Kiyoko bites her bottom lip and looks away, smiling. “I can see.”

There’s silence for several beats, and Hitoka closes her eyes for a distraction, focusing on the _whoosh_ of the air conditioning and the clicking of the cord for the blinds knocking against the wall as it gets blown about.

Kiyoko clears her throat. “Shall we get started?”

“Yes!” Hitoka says. “I’ll get out my English notes.”

“What do you need help with the most, do you think?” Kiyoko asks.

Hitoka thinks for a moment before answering. For her, the hardest part of English is irregular verbs, just because _most_ of the verbs are irregular, and memorising the different forms is tricky. Verb forms are hard too—participles and tenses will probably always confuse her, even if she can tell the difference between the perfect and imperfect tense at least half the time.

“Adverbs,” she says.

“Alright,” Kiyoko says, taking a notebook from her bag and opening it up. She flicks through a few pages before landing on the heading _Adverbs IV_ , written in neat Roman script. Under the heading are two columns for word and meaning. “This is my first year notebook,” she explains. “Do you want me to test you on the words?”

Hitoka nods. She’s not entirely sure how to study a language with another person—in fact, her experience with collaborative studying starts and ends with showing Hinata and Kageyama how to write proper notes. This is new in so many ways.

Kiyoko swivels on her chair so that she’s holding the spine of her notebook towards Hitoka. “First word,” she says, “ _easily_.”

 _Easily_ is how Hitoka’s able to translate the words Kiyoko throws at her. Sometimes, she pretends to take a while to understand, but they did the _Adverbs IV_ unit over a month ago, and she spent a lot of time outside of volleyball drilling the words in her spare time.

“Here’s a hard one,” Kiyoko says. “ _Desperately_.”

 _Just like me_ , Hitoka thinks, _finding any reason to spend time around you._

“I’m sorry,” Hitoka says.

Kiyoko peers out from over the top of the notebook. “Hm? You don’t know it?”

“I do,” Hitoka says, her words tumbling out to catch up with her racing heart. “I’m sorry for lying to you! I’m not that bad at English, actually, I mean, it’s not my _best_ subject, but my vocabulary is good, and I only said I was bad at it because—”

She stops, unsure whether she needs to say it, whether she’s _able_ to—but, she reminds herself, she _has_ to.

“—because I wanted to be able to spend more time with you.”

The silence is deadly. Hitoka realises that she’s trembling, and balls her hands into fists, placing them on her knees to give her some sort of connection to solid ground.

And then, Kiyoko laughs. “Ah, Hitoka-chan,” she says. “If I’m being honest, I had my suspicions—given you’re in a college prep class—but I didn’t say anything, because… because I’ll be graduating in a few weeks, and I wanted to spend more time with you, too.”

“You—?”

“Although,” Kiyoko continues, “let’s agree to something: next time we want to spend time together, we should be honest about it.”

The confidence to be honest is not something that comes easily to Hitoka. Sometimes, she can be too honest. Other times, she just wants to keep her mouth shut, because saying nothing is easier than outright pretending you’re coping.

She thinks about double-meanings in English—about the imperfect tense, and about how she feels now, compared to Kiyoko. But, if there’s even the slightest chance that Kiyoko feels the same way she does, then that’s a chance she has to take. Villager B, and all that.

So, she summons her courage and her voice barely shakes as she asks, “How about next Saturday? T-that is, if you’re free…”

Kiyoko bows her head, smiling. “I’m free.”

 

* * *

 

On Wednesday morning, Hitoka looks down from her window and finds that she can’t tell the tree from the weather-worn pebbles around it. Partly, that’s because she’s so far away, so high above. It’s always concerned her that half the time she’s looking down on the blossom tree, because even when she _can_ see “the view from the other side,” as Hinata would say it, there’s still no way she’d be able to reach for a flower.

Still, there are so many flowers now that the tree’s easily camouflaged, and for a moment Hitoka is rendered stunned by the passage of time.

Maybe another reason she’s not seeing clearly is that it’s so early in the morning. Hitoka has to get up early for volleyball practice, which is no different to how it’s been for the rest of the year, except now she has more responsibility. She’s the manager— _the_ manager—and the team are counting on her.

It’s been weird since the third years stopped coming, but final exams have been and gone, and now they’re winding down with graduation impending. Hitoka expected them to drop by sometimes, but Kiyoko had explained to her that it was better they didn’t.

“Us third years need to make sure the rest of you know you’re doing a good job without us, that you don’t need to rely on us,” she’d said. “That you’ll be alright.”

“What if I won’t be alright?” Hitoka had asked, her voice shaking a bit.

Kiyoko had smiled. “You, especially, will be alright.”

If Hitoka thinks too hard about it, that was probably the Moment. There’s always a Moment when someone realises they’re in love, and while Hitoka knows it’s not good to dwell on these things, she also thinks too hard about _everything_ , and she’s replayed that conversation over and over in her head. She doesn’t know what’s worse: that she still spends every moment at practice thinking how much better it would be with Kiyoko there, or that she _is_ doing alright, despite that.

After what must be over a minute spent staring out the window, Hitoka pulls herself together and gets ready, a bit faster than usual.

Normally, she’s the last person to show up in the mornings. This isn’t because she lives far away—a lot of the others live further. No, it’s because they’ve always been more enthusiastic than her, all of them. Her sudden burst of enthusiasm comes as a surprise to no-one more than herself. Perhaps it has something to do with being in love.

Tanaka and Nishinoya are warming up when she comes through the gym doors. “Yacchan!” Tanaka calls. “You’re early!”

“I am?” Hitoka says, and then, more confidently, “A-ah, I am… !”

“You’re _prepared_!” Nishinoya declares. “March preliminaries aren’t far away, after all. We should _all_ start coming early!”

Midway through reaching for his toes, Tanaka slumps. “Please, no earlier—”

“Where’s your fighting spirit, Ryuu?” Nishinoya shouts, and Hitoka uses their rapidly escalating conversation and raising voices as an excuse to slip away. At the other side of the gym, Ennoshita is running drills with Hinata and Kageyama, the only others there. Hitoka relates to Ennoshita on some level, because he’s having trouble filling someone else’s shoes too—well, _she_ thinks he’s doing well, but sometimes she recognises her own lack of confidence in the way he acts.

There’s something, though, in the way he takes over. When practice starts, he takes a while to adjust before settling into a rhythm. His rhythm is a gentle beat, not the bold drum that Sawamura always played, but it’s driving nonetheless. Hitoka wonders what her rhythm sounds like to the rest of the team.

As usual, she spends the practice session occupied by writing notes. Her notes go everywhere from how different players on the team are getting on with one another to how well their new attack strategies are coming together. Kiyoko never took notes. Hitoka always tells herself, _I’ll leave my notebook at home tomorrow_. She never does.

Keeping notes is probably a good thing, in the long run. She wants to remember every detail, and regrets not working harder to take notes while Kiyoko was still there to guide her.

After practice, after they’ve all changed, Hitoka joins the other first years—almost second years—on their way to class. It’s taken a while for the five of them to feel comfortable as a group, and there are still a few tensions that Hitoka thinks might never disappear. In many ways, it’s better for the team that those tensions stay in place, but they’re insignificant after a certain point, outside of volleyball, and their group is close enough that they can do things together like agree on which movie to watch or play videogames without anyone trying to hit Tsukishima.

“So what do you say?” Hinata asks. “Movie marathon at Kageyama’s house?”

“Why my house?” Kageyama grumbles. “It’s your idea.”

Hinata makes an exasperated noise. “My sister needs to sleep early! And Yamaguchi already said he can’t have us all over this weekend!”

“Ask Tsukishima,” Kageyama says.

Hinata looks up at Tsukishima, eyes narrowed. Tsukishima blinks down at him, face blank.

“No thank you,” Hinata says. “Your house it is.”

As Kageyama continues grumbling, Yamaguchi jumps—he always jumps a little when he has an idea, like the very fact that he’s solved a problem merits a celebration. Hitoka knows Yamaguchi is smart, though, and she’s waiting for him to work that out too.

“Ah,” he says, “Saturday or Sunday?”

“Saturday,” Hinata says. “Kageyama can’t do Sunday.”

Kageyama only stops making his disgruntled noises to shudder to a halt; he’s like a startled deer. “How do you know that?” he asks, jabbing a finger into Hinata’s chest.

“You told me!” Hinata says, putting his hands on his hips defiantly.

“Oh dear,” Tsukishima says. “I think they’ll be going for a while, now.”

“It can’t be helped,” Yamaguchi says, exaggerating a sigh.

Quietly, Hitoka considers how to make her excuses. “Um,” she begins, “I don’t think I can do Saturday.”

At that, Hinata stops in his tracks. “How come?” he asks.

Hitoka could tell him a half-truth, a manufactured story that makes it seem like nothing is amiss, but then she would fret for the rest of her day, worry that they’d somehow work it out, that they’d cross paths while she was busy with something nondescript, and then that’d _really_ be the end of their group’s finely-balanced friendship.

“I’m getting dinner with Shimizu-senpai,” she says.

Even though Hinata’s the one who’s always most interested in what other people are doing, it’s Tsukishima who makes the first comment. Actually, Hitoka thinks, he’s interested in people too, but in a less obvious way.

“Like a date?” he says, so mildly.

“A date,” Hinata echoes reverently. “Yachi-san, you have a _date_ with Shimizu-senpai?”

“No!” Hitoka says, acutely aware that she says it a bit too late for it to be believable. As much as she wants it to be a date, _longs_ for it, she knows the chances that the feeling is reciprocal are way too slim.

“That’s so cool,” Yamaguchi says. “If you can’t make it to Kageyama’s house, we’ll all understand!”

Kageyama looks away, clearly still annoyed about Hinata’s choice of venue. “Yeah,” he says, voice a little strangled, “we’ll understand.”

“Thank you,” Hitoka says, although she’s not quite sure why.

Once Hinata and Kageyama have headed off, it’s just Tsukishima and Yamaguchi, in the class next door to Hitoka’s down the end of the corridor.

“You know,” Yamaguchi says, “you shouldn’t worry about it. Even if it’s your first date, that just means first of many, right?”

Hitoka looks at her feet. “Shimizu-senpai would never go on a date with me,” she says. “How could she, when she’s so impressive and I’m just—”

“Before you continue,” Tsukishima interrupts, “you should know that thinking you’re not good enough for someone won’t get you anywhere.” Hitoka knows it’s his way of trying to be encouraging.

“And,” Yamaguchi adds, “you might be surprised. I bet she likes you just as much as you like her, just the same way.”

They stop outside class four, and Hitoka looks up to see Yamaguchi giving her a broad smile, and Tsukishima looking away—according to Yamaguchi, if he can’t look you in the eye it means he cares about you. Hitoka thinks about how hard it is for her to look Kiyoko in the eye, sometimes. Maybe if she puts on a mean face, Kiyoko will think she’s like Tsukishima, just too awkward to show affection properly.

All through class, she has trouble focusing on her schoolwork. Ironically, the first period of the day is English—they’re working on the future tense today, and their teacher is tentatively introducing future perfect. _In the future_ , Hitoka thinks, _I will go on a date with Shimizu-senpai. In the perfect future, I will have gone on many dates with Shimizu-senpai_.

Outside the classroom windows, there are a few blossom trees. All the trees on the Karasuno campus have pink flowers, though, unlike the tree in Hitoka’s courtyard. Unlike Hitoka’s tree, these ones have long, drooping branches, and at any point in the season she could reach up and grab a flower, maybe jumping a bit, but that would be fine. It would be worth it. Only, of course, it’s not the same if there’s no wait. If she could see the first blossoms on the same day that she could reach them, then there’d be no joy in the eventual gratification of finally, _finally_ sliding a twig between her fingers and gently breaking it just below the bottom of the bud.

It’s been a few days since she last spent any considerable time with Kiyoko, and a few more until she’ll do so again. Every day she wills Saturday to come sooner, but if it did come sooner, then what next? Would she keep waiting until the next Saturday, the next opportunity they had to spend time together? And what then? The prefectural tournament would get in the way, and then Hitoka’s own final exams, and then Kiyoko would be busy looking into university admissions, or getting a job.

Again, she thinks about the passage of time. Maybe, like with the blossoms on the tree, this is something that’ll be better if she waits, if she accepts that she’ll have to wait no matter what. The thought takes a weight off her shoulders—but Saturday still seems painfully far away.

 

* * *

 

It never takes long for the tree to be in full bloom—longer than it would for any other tree, out on the street or in a park, in direct sunlight—but for a tree in a courtyard, surrounded either side by twenty-odd storeys and a solid few metres of concrete and glass, it’s fast. A week after Kiyoko was over to study, almost two thirds of the tree are dotted with small white blossoms. There are still some closed buds among them, though, so Hitoka knows it’ll be some days yet before she can reach for one.

To meet Kiyoko at the restaurant, Hitoka has to be prepared for any eventuality. She wills herself not to think of it as some sort of date, because it’d just make her even more nervous, and she decides that it’s not a relationship she wants to ruin with her awkwardness and fumbling, anyway. But there’s nothing in her resolve to stop her from fussing over her appearance. Ten minutes, fifteen, half an hour passes as she rifles through her wardrobe to match the perfect outfit—by nature, the perfect outfit is imperfect, designed to give the impression that no effort at all has gone into its construction.

 _Casual_ —that’s the word. It had been casual when Hitoka had asked Kiyoko if she was free on Saturday, casual when Kiyoko suggested that they get dinner together. Nothing more or less than casual, a carefully delineated boundary between familiar and intimate.

On the boundary, Hitoka feels powerless. If only she could take a step to either side—but, no, she’s too far gone just to think of Kiyoko as a friend, not close enough to feel confident in calling it something more.

There’s that hopefulness, though, that she can’t shake, that maybe it _is_ something more. Maybe, possibly—adverbs. If, when—for conditional clauses.

“Stop thinking about it!” Hitoka tells herself, slapping her cheeks. “Get over yourself!”

She looks at the outfits laid out on her bed. A-line skirts, button-down blouses, lace and bows and pastel colours. She thinks of Hinata, closing his eyes for Kageyama’s toss, and how much better he became as he learnt to stop playing it safe and kept his eyes open.

At the back of Hitoka’s wardrobe, there’s a navy blue dress speckled with small golden stars. Her aunt bought it for her last birthday, knowing she always wore star hairclips, not knowing that she almost never wore such dark and bold colours.

Maybe, possibly, today’s the day.

When she comes out of her room wearing the dress, her mother gasps. “Hitoka—”

“I know,” Hitoka says, blushing and clutching the front of the dress. “It’s weird, isn’t it?”

“It’s lovely,” her mother says. “It brings out your eyes.”

“Can dresses even do that?” Hitoka asks, laughing nervously.

Her mother smiles. “Nothing brings out your eyes like confidence. Don’t go on a date feeling anything less than a million dollars. Kiyoko-chan will pick up on it.”

“You’re right,” Hitoka says. The problem is, no-one brings out her confidence like Kiyoko, and Hitoka doesn’t know how people naturally cultivate that sort of air. Her mother does it, easily, but Hitoka’s still trying to puzzle it out.

“Go on, then,” her mother says. “Don’t come home too late.”

“I won’t,” Hitoka promises.

It’s not a long walk to the restaurant they’ve settled on for dinner—Hitoka’s pick—but she’s on high alert. She looks three times each way before crossing roads, just in case a car comes out of nowhere, and checks around corners, just in case. Time goes slowly when she’s worrying.

Even worse—Kiyoko is there early. She’s already waiting at a table, arms folded over each other and a complimentary glass of water resting by her right hand. Hitoka swallows a greeting, holds herself back from an exuberant wave. Instead, she doesn’t make herself obvious right until she reaches the table. She puts one hand on the back of her chair and poses like a woman in a movie would.

Kiyoko looks up; her eyelids flutter briefly, and then she relaxes into a smile. “Hitoka-chan, I’m sorry I was early. I hope it doesn’t look like I’ve started without you!”

For a second, it throws Hitoka off-guard that Kiyoko is concerned like this. She’s not supposed to be worrying about it! She’s supposed to be cool and collected and definitely not acting like she’s on a first date. That’s Hitoka’s job.

“O-of course not!” Hitoka says. “I think I’m a little late, anyway.”

“I think we’re both early, actually,” Kiyoko says, glancing at her watch. She looks too quickly to realistically be able to see the time, though. Hitoka wonders if there’s a clock on the wall behind her, although she’s not about to turn around to check.

“Um,” Kiyoko says quietly, “you can sit down if you want.”

“Oh!” Hitoka exclaims. She’s still posing stupidly, so she takes a second to collect herself before pulling out the chair and taking a seat. She has to shuffle to get closer to the table, and she drags a bit of the tablecloth with her as she holds on to it for purchase.

“I’ve been looking at the menu,” Kiyoko says, her voice soft. “There’s a lot to choose from.”

“It’s supposed to be French-style,” Hitoka says. At least, that’s what she read on the internet.

Kiyoko hums. “It looks like it.”

Hitoka opens the menu and experimentally runs her eyes down the price column. It’s not too expensive—which had definitely factored into her decision—but she can’t really understand what the dishes are meant to be. The menu is printed in French, a lazy pretention, and it’s all Hitoka can do to sound out the letters in her head.

They make a little conversation until the waiter comes, and Hitoka orders in Japanese, puzzling out the meanings of the French words from her knowledge of English.

It’s a quiet evening at the restaurant, and their food doesn’t take long to come. Hitoka hates it. She wishes the night could drag on, that every awkward silence could be amplified tenfold and that they’d be there, separated by a candle and a small vase filled of plastic flowers. That’s the thing—it _is_ awkward. Hitoka is slowly beginning to realise that it’s because they’ve usually only talked about volleyball, or school. Small, trivial things, snippets of a longer conversation that, when you put them together, don’t necessarily make a relationship come to life. But she’d live out every second of this awkwardness over and again if it meant spending more time with Kiyoko.

“After this,” Kiyoko says, “we should get dessert. What do you think?”

“That sounds nice,” Hitoka says. It sounds like a _date_. “Would we stay here, or did you have something else in mind?”

“Actually,” Kiyoko says, “I think there’s a dessert bar nearby… ?”

“Let’s go, then!” Hitoka says. She doesn’t mention that the very concept fundamentally intimidates her, and that she doesn’t know what the prices are like, or whether she’ll even like anything on the menu. But it’s a risk she _needs_ to take. In fact, there’s probably a greater risk in disagreeing.

As they eat, Hitoka starts to think that this typical sort of date isn’t really meant for them. And maybe they haven’t worked out how their friendship sits best, what sort of— _outing_ would get rid of this awful atmosphere around them. Maybe they won’t ever work it out.

“Have you been here before?” Kiyoko asks, halfway through her meal. “I don’t mean any offence by it, I just wondered—”

“It’s alright,” Hitoka says quickly, “I know it’s kind of stuffy, and everyone here is sort of older than us, and the flowers are fake but the food’s okay—”

“Hitoka-chan,” Kiyoko interrupts, “it’s not a problem. I just meant, given this is your neighbourhood.”

Right. Making conversation. Hitoka can make conversation. She’s made conversation hundreds of thousands of times. “Actually, I don’t eat out much,” she says. “If anything, I just get takeaway.”

“Me too,” Kiyoko says. “I don’t really… I don’t do things like this often. Next time, we should just…”

 _Next time_.

“You could come to my house, and we could get takeaway,” Kiyoko finishes. “We can watch movies.”

“What sort of movies do you like?” Hitoka asks, because actually, she knows so little about Kiyoko, and she wants to know so much more.

Kiyoko thinks for a moment, putting a finger to her lips. “Ah!” she says, grinning. “I like horror movies.”

“Horror!” Hitoka yelps, her skin crawling a bit as she sits up straighter. “That’s—well, I mean, everyone likes different things, don’t they? A-and I’m sure horror has a lot of merits as a genre, lots of, um, cinematography.”

After a second, Kiyoko laughs. “It’s okay,” she says, “horror isn’t really my favourite. We can watch something light, like a romance.”

“Romances aren’t all light,” Hitoka says, even though she doesn’t really know where the thought is coming from. “Sometimes they’re—they don’t always have happy endings, do they?”

“We’ll only watch the happy ones,” Kiyoko says. Hitoka feels herself melt at Kiyoko’s expression, so earnest, so unique to this moment. A happy ending, Hitoka thinks, would be the least she could hope for.

Although Hitoka had wished for an endless night, they finish eating quickly—she finds herself coughing a few times simply from how fast she’s going, every time telling herself to slow down, every time ignoring her own advice. It’s the _next_ part that’ll be the centrepiece of the evening.

When they’re done, they pause outside while Kiyoko opens a map on her phone for directions. The air is cool and fresh and the night smells like street food and blossom trees, and there’s a street light by them casting a yellow beam onto Kiyoko, leaving her in silhouette with Hitoka staring, open-mouthed, wondering what unbelievable sequence of events lead to this, to her being in the presence of someone so radiant.

“I think it’s this way,” Kiyoko says.

 _I’ll follow you anywhere_ , Hitoka thinks. “Alright!” she says. “Let’s go!”

Kiyoko leads the way, her pleated skirt swaying behind her as she walks. They stop at a traffic light, and she turns to glance over her shoulder. “I meant to say earlier, you look nice tonight.”

There’s a moment where Hitoka’s heart stops and, even as the lights change to green for crossing, she stays exactly where she is, like her feet will never be able to move again. This is it, this is the place where Kiyoko paid her an earnest compliment on an evening which is very swiftly beginning to feel like a _real date_ , under the glow of the traffic lights at a four-way junction, with the sound of cars fading to a low hum as Hitoka’s heartbeat overruns them. Kiyoko just laughs, taking Hitoka by the wrist and leading her across the road, from one shadow to another.

“You,” Hitoka manages, “look nice too…”

“Thank you,” Kiyoko says, so genuinely, and then she lets go of Hitoka and wanders towards the shopfront with bright signs in pastel pink and blue, sporting a cartoonish scoop of ice cream balancing atop a waffle cone. Kiyoko walks ahead, picks up two menus and hands one to Hitoka.

Although Hitoka’s never been to a dessert bar before, she sort of feels like they’re all like this, beautiful and clean but with menus longer than an English textbook and the strange sensation of sterility. But it’s more casual than the restaurant, and so Hitoka feels more relaxed. It’s easier to order something with Kiyoko by her side, easier to suggest that they eat it in the park nearby, away from the crowd.

They sit on a bench beneath a blossom tree—an old tree, gnarled branches jutting out at every angle, petals falling all over the bench, a breeze blowing through the darkening night.

It’s perfect.

On impulse, Hitoka breaks the silence after they’ve finished their dessert. “Thank you,” she says, and she means it, means _more_ , but she’s not sure how to express it, “for tonight.”

“We really should do this more often,” Kiyoko says, and then, flustered, adds, “Not necessarily exactly like this, I mean! But, spending time together—”

“Yes!” Hitoka says. “Yes, we should definitely spend more time together!”

Kiyoko sits back against the bench, sighing. “You’re good for me. I think I’m more of myself when I’m around you.”

“I thought that was just because you’re scared of boys,” Hitoka says. “Like me,” she clarifies.

“I may be shy,” Kiyoko says, “but I think, in a way, being around you brings out the best in me. I can be more confident with you.”

Hitoka laughs nervously. “You can’t mean that,” she says.

“How do you know that?” Kiyoko asks, turning again so they’re face-to-face.

“That’s how I feel about you,” Hitoka says.

She doesn’t have time to reflect on the words as they leave her mouth, but she knows they carry more weight than she intends them to. She’s still working things out, confused, tentative, unsure of where to take this relationship that she feels like she’s stumbled into sideways. It’s too fast, too _real_ , for something that until tonight has been a figment of her imagination.

Kiyoko reaches up with a hand, and Hitoka can’t quite meet her eye, even though she knows Kiyoko is trying to gauge the mood through her expression, but then Kiyoko’s fingers brush some stray hairs behind Hitoka’s ear. Hitoka feels herself shiver and she’s sure it’s not just from the chill of the evening.

“I’m sorry,” Hitoka says, tripping over her words and her feet as she stands, “I have to go.”

She doesn’t look back, doesn’t stop, doesn’t double-check as she turns corners. She carries her leftover rubbish from dessert in her hands all the way until she gets home.

 

* * *

 

On the day that the third years are graduating, the tree in the courtyard is covered in flowers, more than low enough for Hitoka’s reach.

She considers just staying in bed all day. She could be sick. No-one would know she wasn’t sick—her mother had already left for work, and Hitoka wouldn’t be missed in class, not really. She can’t skip, though, no matter how much she justifies it to herself. It’s not her nature. So, she resigns herself to a sluggish morning, dressing slowly, picking at her breakfast.

It’s been a week since her date with Kiyoko, and she knows now that it _was_ a date, something that, at this rate, won’t happen again. They’ve spoken a bit since then—said hi as they pass in the corridors, shared smiles—so Hitoka knows that Kiyoko isn’t mad at her. To make up for it, she’s _furious_ at herself. She still doesn’t know why she ran away, why she couldn’t face whatever was happening between them that night. Even an unrequited crush would be easier than this.

When she’s finished getting ready, Hitoka looks at the clock by the front door only to find that she was _still_ early. She tells herself it’s just one of those things that happen sometimes. An unhappy accident.

She presses the button for the lift and there’s one already on her floor. Even the descent is faster than usual. Then, instead of going out the front entrance, she heads for the courtyard.

Now, there are blossoms falling already, nestling themselves among the pebbles. Hitoka rests her bag on one of the benches and takes off her shoes and socks. It’s part of the ritual—if she can’t reach a flower with no extra height, without standing on her toes, then they aren’t ready for her to pick. She steps around the flowers on the ground. That’s part of it too. If a flower falls naturally, it’s out of the game.

She stands at her usual angle, with her back to the wall which, seventeen floors up, has her bedroom window on its facade. There are a few low branches within her reach, and usually she goes for the lowest. This year, she stretches her arm as far as it’ll go and hesitantly runs her fingers along one of the branches. The bark is cold and dewy, and the scent of the flowers is almost overwhelming. It’s never taken this long to choose before.

“I can be more confident with you,” Kiyoko had said.

“I can be more confident,” Hitoka tells the tree, “and I won’t let anything get in the my way, least of all me.”

Hitoka knows that when her only obstacle is herself, it’s harder than ever to overcome. But she’ll do it, she’ll remind herself that she has nothing to be afraid of—and it’s then that her insecurity starts to feel insignificant, and she thinks, _I can do this_.

This time, it’s easier than it’s ever been to fit a stem between her fingers and snap it gently. It’s a clean break, and the flower floats down into her palm, settling there like a lilypad in a pond. As Hitoka brings her arm down, holding the flower reverently in front of her, something _clicks_ in her mind.

Her strides are twice as long as she heads back to the bench, pebbles and petals sliding between her toes. She places the flower down next to her bag as she puts her socks and shoes back on, thankful that there’s no wind in the courtyard to blow it away. At first, she considers putting the flower in her backpack, maybe hiding it in the rings of her binder, but it could always slide out, so liable to getting crushed between her textbooks.

No, she’ll have to carry it the whole way there.

Now she’s a little late, barely making the bus as she reaches the shelter across the road. And then, to school—there are always other Karasuno students on the bus, but none Hitoka knows. Maybe one or two of them are in her class, but then, she barely talks to anyone in her class apart from a handful of friends. It’s not a bad thing.

The bus doesn’t stop right outside the school, just around the corner and across the road. Hitoka’s mind is buzzing with possibilities as she makes the walk. What will she even say to Kiyoko? And, once she says it, how will Kiyoko react? Will her feelings have changed, and were her feelings ever a match for Hitoka’s own?

Either way, Hitoka has the entire graduation ceremony to contemplate it. She finds Yamaguchi and Tsukishima loitering outside the entrance to the school hall.

“Yamaguchi-kun,” Hitoka says, “you’ll be late!”

“It’s alright,” Yamaguchi says. “We were waiting for you! Tsukki thought you might be running late.”

“I said, ’She’s probably running late,’” Tsukishima mumbles, looking up from his phone. “It was Yamaguchi’s idea to wait.”

“Anyway,” Yamaguchi says, “Hinata and Kageyama are even later. They’re still racing each other around the gym.”

Hitoka tries to smile, but it escapes into a grin. “Ah, I think they’re just trying to put it off,” she says. “After all, they’ll miss our upperclassmen a lot.”

“What, and we won’t?” Tsukishima says jokingly. Hitoka likes to imagine that he’s using humour to cover for real emotions.

“Oh!” Yamaguchi says, “I just noticed. Yachi-san, is that a cherry blossom?”

Hitoka unfurls her fingers a bit, letting the flower slip down her palms. One of the petals is a little bruised, but it still has the same bright white colour that it had on the tree.

“Where’d you get it?” Tsukishima asks.

“It’s in the courtyard at my house,” Hitoka says.

All the trees at the school have pink flowers, which makes hers stand out even more. She’s thankful at least that Tsukishima didn’t ask something like, “Why are you carrying a flower?” She’s not sure she could answer that.

“Well, let’s go in,” Tsukishima says. “I’m not interested in waiting around for the idiots.”

Yamaguchi stifles a laugh behind his hand, and Hitoka follows behind them as they lead the way into the hall.

They don’t go to a very fancy school, there’s no coliseum and no amphitheatre, but the hall may well be bigger than both for how large it’s always seemed to Hitoka. She’s short at the best of times—being in such a big crowd leaves her feeling alone and useless. The thought that Kiyoko is at the front of that crowd somewhere makes her a little more calm.

Throughout the ceremony, Tsukishima folds each page of his programme into a paper plane, looking up only for their seniors from the volleyball club. Yamaguchi pays close attention to every student crossing the stage, his hands diligently folded together on his lap. Hitoka watches the two of them, watches the idiosyncrasies of the other students around them, to distract herself from the main event.

It’s only when Kiyoko’s name is called that she sits up straighter, closes her hands more firmly around the flower.

Yamaguchi turns to her. “I never asked how your date went,” he whispers.

“That’s probably for the best,” Hitoka says weakly.

“I’m sure it was fine,” Yamaguchi says, undeterred. “Don’t worry.”

When the ceremony finishes, they’re swept out with the crowd, directed in the way they flow. Hitoka sticks close to Yamaguchi, but Tsukishima slips away, putting on his headphones.

“Are you going to find her?” Yamaguchi asks.

Hitoka doesn’t need to think about her answer, but she pauses nonetheless. “I’m going to confess,” she says, her voice coming out all high-pitched and scratchy.

“Good luck, Yachi-san!” Yamaguchi says. “You’ve got this.”

“Yeah,” Hitoka says, taking a deep breath and curling her toes, balancing on her heels. “I’ve got this.”

Breaking into a run would be too obvious, but she doesn’t walk slowly either, weaving between the people in the crowd around to the side of the hall where the graduating students will be. It’s her first high school graduation, and she tries not to think about what it’ll be like when that’s _her_ around the side of the hall.

Kiyoko is standing with a group of girls Hitoka doesn’t recognise, and they’re all so tall and _mature_ and Hitoka is daunted enough that she stands still at the edge of the crowd for a moment. She knows she has nothing to panic about, but she panics anyway, shutting her eyes and trying to breathe. Her hands tremble, and the flower slips between her palm—she opens her eyes just in time to see it float to the ground. Desperately, she sinks to her knees to retrieve it, aiming for the stem and missing, trying again and—

“Hitoka-chan?”

For a moment, Kiyoko’s voice sounds like it must be coming from a mirage. There’s no way. Hitoka takes the flower, makes sure she’s holding it securely, before looking up slowly to see that, yes, Kiyoko is standing right in front of her, bent forward a little with her palms flat on her knees.

“Shimizu-senpai.”

Kiyoko extends a hand, smiling. “Are you alright down there?”

“I dropped my flower,” Hitoka says uselessly.

“Your flower?” Kiyoko asks, as Hitoka takes her hand and lets herself be lifted.

In her right hand, she’s holding the flower, bruised and missing some of its earlier lustre, but still whole, none of its petals missing. She summons every last bit of courage and holds it out.

“It’s for you,” she says.

Kiyoko doesn’t respond right away, just brings her fingers up to meet Hitoka’s, and takes the flower. “Thank you,” she says, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“I wanted to apologise for last weekend,” Hitoka says, “but I didn’t know how. I wanted to say that—that you’re so precious to me, like the first flower that I can reach on the tree in my building’s courtyard. So, this is that flower.”

“That means a lot,” Kiyoko says, even softer, bowing her head as a blush spreads across her cheeks. “And I’m grateful you feel comfortable enough around me to say that.”

“There’s one more thing,” Hitoka says.

She’s definitely silent for too long, and in any other circumstances this would become awkward. But Kiyoko, holding her graduation diploma in one hand and the flower in the other, is patient.

“I also,” Hitoka continues, “wanted to confess to you. I know it’s probably too late, but… I still wanted to—”

—wanted to _try_. Because that’s what it comes down to, in the end: Hitoka was too nervous, holding herself back with worst-case scenarios, refusing to believe that anything good could come of her infatuation with someone as _unbelievable_ as Kiyoko. But there could be no harm in _trying_ —

Kiyoko dips her head, and for a moment Hitoka thinks she’s going to walk away, but she slips the flower behind her ear and brushes some hair from her face, then she brings that same hand up to Hitoka’s face, resting it against the curve of her neck.

Hitoka barely has time to ask what’s happening before Kiyoko leans forward, so close that Hitoka can feel her breath. “May I kiss you?” Kiyoko asks. This time, her voice is more confident, and Hitoka gives a confident answer in turn.

It’s like flickering street lights and the heat of a candle as Kiyoko’s lips meet Hitoka’s, brighter than the Spring sun and cooler than the breeze that’s blowing petals across the campus. Spring really is the most romantic season, Hitoka thinks. She imagines being kissed in Summer, in Autumn, in Winter—well, with Kiyoko, it would probably be just as incredible, different each time but no less electrifying.

As Kiyoko breaks away, Hitoka becomes aware of all the people who could be watching her—strangers, faculty members, friends, friends of friends—but when she looks out the corner of her eye, she realises something that’s strangely liberating.

“No-one cares,” she says, speaking the thought like exhaling in relief.

“Did you think everyone would be watching us?” Kiyoko asks. “I was worried they might, too, but sometimes you just have to forget about consequences, right?”

“Yeah,” Hitoka says, her voice shaking a bit. “That certainly was… something worth forgetting consequences for…”

Kiyoko laughs. “If you like, we could forget about consequences again.”

“M-maybe later,” Hitoka stammers.

She’s not quite ready yet to face the world as a new person, even though that’s exactly how she feels. And maybe she’s irredeemably shy, and maybe it’ll take her some time to work through it. Maybe it’ll take a week, maybe until the blossom tree is bare again, maybe until she can next reach for the lowest flower. Later—and she knows that with Kiyoko, she’ll be able to find that strength eventually. How could she not?

“That’s fine,” Kiyoko says. “Hey, could I come by your house this weekend? I’d love to see the blossom tree in your courtyard.”

“Of course!” Hitoka says.

“I’ll pick a flower for you,” Kiyoko says decisively. Then, her face takes on a mischievous grin. “And, you can introduce me to your mother as your girlfriend.”

Hitoka feels like she’s in bloom, never mind any flowers. “I’d love to,” she says.

The way Kiyoko smiles, eyes closed, flower behind her ear, makes Hitoka’s heart leap.

“I’d really love to.”

 

* * *

 

In Winter, the snow rarely falls to the bottom of the courtyard. It’s such a long way down and there’s the heat from all the flats on either side, and the angle’s never right—everything conspires against it. But it never matters, because in a matter of months the courtyard will be scattered with white petals, brighter and more _alive_ than snow could ever be.

For now, nearing the end of Winter, the courtyard is barren and there are no flowers on the tree. The closest thing Hitoka has is one that she keeps pressed in her English dictionary, lying on its side at the edge of her desk. It’s purely sentimental, but sometimes she allows herself to indulge in sentimentality, something just for herself.

It’s not a secret that she’s been dating Kiyoko since last Spring, but sometimes Hitoka likes to pretend it is. That way, it’s closer to her, more guarded. She’s still working on that whole _confidence_ thing.

Her phone flashes with a text, resting atop her dictionary. Hitoka jumps, but holds her hand back and takes a deep breath before grabbing it. The text is from Kiyoko—she knows that without even looking. A few seconds, a few more breaths later, she takes her phone and unlocks it to read the message.

_I’m downstairs; ready?_

“Ready!” Hitoka yells, jumping up from her chair. Her bag’s already packed—Kiyoko doesn’t mind if she comes off too enthusiastic, because beneath her composure, she’s enthusiastic too.

The problem with being a bit noisy sometimes is that it attracts attention. Hitoka’s bedroom door slides open, and her mother pops her head through. “Going out with Kiyoko-chan?”

“Yeah,” Hitoka says, rubbing the back of her neck. “To the concert, remember?”

“Alright,” her mother says. “Well, I don’t need to tell you to stay safe, then. Just make sure you have fun, okay?”

Hitoka grins. “I will!”

By the door, her mother smiles back. “And say hello to her from me.”

It’s only once she’s in the lift that Hitoka realises she hasn’t responded to Kiyoko’s text, so she types out a quick _On my way!_ —only, there’s no reception, so by the time it sends she’s already reached the ground floor. She runs to the front doors, and presses the button open them as Kiyoko’s silhouette stays still.

“Come in, come in!” Hitoka calls. “Just for a bit!”

Kiyoko steps through the doorway. “Sorry if I’m a little early,” she says, glancing down at her phone before putting it away in her bag.

“Not a problem!” Hitoka says. “Since the bus isn’t for a while, I thought we could sit in the courtyard.”

“Sure,” Kiyoko says. “I guess I was just early because I _really_ needed this break, and I knew you wouldn’t mind.”

“Uni?” Hitoka guesses, leading the way through to the courtyard.

Kiyoko nods, sighing. “I have two essays due by the end of next week. They’re not long, but it’s the _timing_. You’d think my lecturers could talk to one another.”

“You’d hope they would,” Hitoka says.

Even though Kiyoko only goes to a small university, it sounds absolutely terrifying. They give them so much more freedom than in high school, but still expect them to conform to the same standard—if not higher. Hitoka’s glad she’s still two years younger than Kiyoko, because she’s not ready to face that sort of responsibility yet.

Managing the volleyball team is a different sort of responsibility. It’s been a harsh shift to something new without Kiyoko there to guide her, but in the year since she stepped down, Hitoka’s been adjusting and learning, shifting to fit a role that she hadn’t even imagined could be so _right_ for her. She’s almost certain, though, that the first years look up to her, and she knows she’ll do an even better job with next year’s first years. And then, like Kiyoko did, she’ll find a new manager, an eager first year who hasn’t found a club yet, and let her in on the best-kept secret of them all: that a team is the best group of friends you’ll ever have.

It would’ve been so easy to drift out of contact with the other former third years after they’d left, but keeping in touch with Kiyoko has meant that Hitoka always hears about what they’re doing. She’s grateful for the connection, one she hopes she’ll never lose.

Another secret she’s keeping is that she never wants to lose Kiyoko—although your first relationship is meant to be as fleeting as the blossoms in Spring, Hitoka can’t bring herself to think that way about it, not ever.

They sit down on the closest bench, and Kiyoko crosses her legs to lean in closer, places a hand over Hitoka’s. This isn’t the closest they’ve been, by far, but Hitoka finds that it’s moments that are innocent but intimate that make her the most flustered.

“After my essays are done,” Kiyoko begins, “we should try going out for dinner again.”

“Really?” Hitoka asks, laughing. “After what happened last time?”

Kiyoko shrugs, the corner of her mouth quirking up in a smile. “I think it’s worth trying. You never know, we might be better at it now.”

“But I can think of so many things we’re better at,” Hitoka says, and then immediately purses her lips tight—the _implications_ are so embarrassing, she can’t believe herself.

Thankfully, Kiyoko takes it well, and squeezes Hitoka’s hand. “We have to try new things, though, don’t we?”

“I suppose so,” Hitoka says. She’s tried a lot of new things lately—the newest of all being the very act of extending herself beyond her limits. She doesn’t think that’ll ever get old. “But we ought to pick more carefully next time.”

“How _did_ you pick that restaurant?” Kiyoko asks.

Hitoka feels herself blush, and looks away. “Off the internet,” she says. “I searched for local places.”

“That’s what I would’ve done,” Kiyoko says, pulling Hitoka back around to face her. She touches Hitoka’s cheek, just lightly. “We’re similar like that.”

As Kiyoko brings her in for a kiss, Hitoka thinks about what she said. They _are_ similar, both quite fundamentally withdrawn people who’ve had to adapt to sociability. They react in different ways—Hitoka frets and it spirals into stress, Kiyoko internalises and withdraws. It’ll never be a perfect fit, but Hitoka likes to think that putting the two of them together can make it a little easier.

The way Kiyoko kisses is always very understated, even when it’s passionate. It’s delicate, but not too fleeting. There’s enough pressure that Hitoka can feel it for minutes after Kiyoko pulls away. And no matter how many times it happens—in different ways and in different places—it’s _new_ every time.

“So,” Kiyoko says, “dinner. We can always go tonight after the concert.”

They’re not adventurous enough for the rock concerts that Tanaka and Nishinoya go to, and they haven’t got the patience for the operas that Tsukishima listens to—so, it’s a piano recital by one of Kiyoko’s uni friends. And despite the cold, they’re both dressed nicely, which Hitoka insists adds to the feeling of a date. It’s not like they can do this often.

“What about your essays?” Hitoka asks.

Kiyoko shrugs. “This is already an afternoon off. I think I wouldn’t mind making it a night off too.”

“Alright,” Hitoka says, “it’s a date.”

They hold eye contact for a few moments, seeing who can go the longest without laughing. Kiyoko wins, because Hitoka can never keep back her emotions for long. But, Kiyoko holds her hands as she laughs, with the most wonderful smile on her face.

“Ah,” Hitoka says, “I’m very lucky.”

“So am I,” Kiyoko says. “You know, it’s still true that you make me more confident. Every day, I feel a little more—how would you say it… ?”

“Beautiful?” Hitoka suggests.

Kiyoko gives her a look, and Hitoka holds back another laugh. “Not that,” Kiyoko says. “Inspired, maybe. Ready for anything.”

Hitoka’s pretty sure she’s going to explode—she buries her head in her hands, biting her lip. “You don’t mean that,” she says, muffling her voice into her hands.

“Yes I do,” Kiyoko says, putting an arm around Hitoka’s shoulders and pulling her close. “I know what I said!”

“Still,” Hitoka whines, flopping backwards onto Kiyoko’s lap. “You’re so—”

It’s a sentence she can’t finish, doesn’t _need_ to finish. It’s the words she’s said over and again, so much that they’ve become implicit, but not enough to wear them out.

“We should probably get going now,” she finishes.

Kiyoko lifts her arm out from under Hitoka and checks her watch. “Seems like it,” she says. “It’s not far to the bus stop, is it?”

“No, it’s close,” Hitoka says. She forces herself to stand up, stretching her arms and yawning. But, as she’s standing on her toes, she dips her head back and catches sight of the blossom tree in the centre of the courtyard. In surprise, she breathes out, her mouth hanging open.

“Ah, Kiyoko-san,” she says, “there’s a bud already.”

Kiyoko comes to stand beside her, looking up. “Right there at the top?”

“Yeah,” Hitoka says. “Spring’s come early.”

With Spring comes the anniversary of their first year together, and more flowers, more that Hitoka won’t be able to reach until much later in the season—only, this year, she doesn’t need to stifle herself with anticipation. This year, it’s been much brighter on the ground than unattainably high up above her. Everything that was so out of reach before feels _possible_ , and it’s so liberating that Hitoka could almost fly, lighter than air so she can look down on the tree from above and watch the blossoms spread out from the middle, until the whole courtyard is resplendent with the fragrance of the new season.

And this season, and the next, she’ll still feel just as incredible, because she’s got Kiyoko, and because they make each other brighter than the Spring sun on a Winter afternoon.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading; please leave a comment to let me know your thoughts!


End file.
